


An Interpretation of Viewing Habits

by akitsuko



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Declarations Of Love, Fantasizing, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Jealous Sherlock, John Watson Goes on Dates, John in Denial About His Sexuality, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Porn, Porn Watching, Sherlock Holmes Has No Boundaries, Smut, Top John, Vocal Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-23 08:46:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18149666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akitsuko/pseuds/akitsuko
Summary: John watches porn. It's a perfectly normal thing to do.If every video he watches happens to feature actors with remarkable physical similarities to his flatmate, well, that's no one's business but his own.Or: John is in denial, until his infatuation with Sherlock is impossible to deny anymore.





	An Interpretation of Viewing Habits

**Author's Note:**

> I'm stuck in hospital right now, and Johnlock is keeping me sane through the boredom of being chained to drips and monitors. 
> 
> Not proof-read.

John watches porn. Not every day. Not even every time he wanks. Just sometimes, when he feels like he needs a little bit of something extra to help get him off.

 

He doesn't shout it from the rooftops, obviously, but he wouldn't have a problem with admitting it to anyone who asked. He’s not ashamed or bashful about it. Millions of people around the world watch porn every day, after all. It’s a perfectly normal habit for a normal adult, like himself, to indulge in.

 

And his viewing preferences are fairly standard. The more extreme or unusual categories - the fetish porn, the bukakke, the catfight facesitting, for instance - they just don't appeal to him. He gravitates naturally toward the failsafe videos depicting men fucking women, with very little out of the ordinary.

 

If the sex, more often than not, is of the anal variety, then that's no one's business but his own. He’s a grown man and he’s entitled to like whatever he likes.

 

And if one (or indeed both) of the participants is almost always tall and slender and pale-skinned, with a full head of dark curls, well, that's entirely inconsequential.

 

And if his viewing frequency (and indeed masturbation frequency) has increased steadily over the past few months, ever since Sherlock had spilt something corrosive over himself during an experiment and promptly stripped down to his underwear right where he stood in the kitchen, John is prepared to argue until he’s blue in the face that the only reason for it is his lack of a girlfriend.

 

He tells himself that same thing as he leans back in bed with his laptop one afternoon while Sherlock is out, scrolling disinterestedly past thumbnails depicting young blondes and Japanese wives and mature women seducing their step-daughters. And he steadfastly refuses to question himself when he finally happens upon a short-ish clip titled, ‘Skinny guy fucks small tits chick in the ass’, and clicks on it only after assessing whether the male’s appearance fits his particular criteria. He watches, and he wanks, and he pays very little attention to the woman in the clip, and he bites his lip as he comes over his own stomach and absolutely does not analyse why the image of a certain person with sharp cheekbones and curly hair shoves its way into his mind at the crucial moment.

 

What he really needs, he decides as he reclines there, basking in a somewhat underwhelming afterglow with a hand still loosely wrapped around his softening cock, the masculine grunts and feminine moans continuing to stream from his laptop speakers where the video carries on playing, is a date. Preferably a date who will go to bed with him very quickly and with no strings attached. Someone who can put an end to the sexual slump he seems to have found himself in of late.

 

Because that's undoubtedly what this is. It's a dry spell. It’s not the first he’s ever experienced and he’s sure it won't be the last. And his experience tells him that the quickest way out of it is a very casual and short-lived arrangement, just to sort of… reboot his system.

 

Remind himself that there are actually people out there who will sleep with him.

 

And he remembers that he’s really rather good at getting dates when he puts his mind to it. The next time he goes out to do the weekly food shop, he bonds with a pretty brunette who appears to be struggling with the self-service checkout as much as he usually does, and he leaves the supermarket with her number and a vague promise to have dinner together later in the week.

 

He’s humming to himself as he unpacks the shopping, the anticipation of a potential sexual encounter thrumming through his mind. Sherlock is glued to his microscope at the kitchen table, and if he were to remain silent, John would be sure that his presence hasn't even been noticed.

 

But Sherlock’s voice, confident and a little curious, interrupts his thoughts. “You met someone.”

 

Something inside John responds very positively to Sherlock’s verbal interest in his love life, but he squashes it back. He’s used to it, does it without even thinking these days. “Her name is Tammy. We connected over a mutual hatred of robots.”

 

Sherlock hums and changes out his slide, apparently already bored with this line of conversation, and John tells himself he isn't disappointed. He forces himself to think about how Tammy instead. As soon as he’s put the food away, he pulls her scribbled number out of his pocket and fires off a text.

 

_Hey, it’s John from the self-service checkout. Hope you haven't forgotten me already ;) Would love to make a more concrete plan for that dinner!_

 

He hovers in the kitchen while he waits for a reply, half watching Sherlock do chemistry-related things that he really doesn't understand, and half attempting to clear up the cluttered counters. He can't check his phone quickly enough when it pings with a text alert around ten minutes later.

 

_Hi John :) What did u have in mind? X_

 

The grin that comes to his face is automatic as he starts typing a reply, but it vanishes just as fast when Sherlock snorts. “What?”

 

Sherlock doesn't look away from the microscope as he responds, “She’s not going to have sex with you.”

 

John scoffs. “There's no way you could possibly know that. And no,” he emphasises as Sherlock opens his mouth, no doubt to explain how he deduced his way to that particular conclusion, “I don't want to know. Just let me go on a date and have a nice time, for once.”

 

Sherlock huffs but says nothing further, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Smug bastard.

 

And now John is more agitated than anticipatory; he can feel the increased tension in the set of his jaw. He removes himself from the kitchen, intent on putting some distance between himself and Sherlock to reduce the very familiar urge to wring his gorgeous neck, and feels defiant as he makes dinner plans with Tammy for the next day. Italian food, lots of romance and atmosphere, the perfect preamble for the casual shag that John sincerely hopes Tammy will go for.

 

* * *

 

 

The next day, John is back in much better spirits. His body is filled with an optimistic energy, and there's a spring in his step as he gets ready for his date. He doesn't let it get to him when, as he’s shaving with the bathroom door open, Sherlock strides past with his dressing gown billowing behind him and calls out, “It’s a waste of time, John.”

 

He just calls back, “Shut up, Sherlock,” as he carefully slides his razor from his cheek to his jaw.

 

And he still doesn't let it get to him when, as he’s lacing up what Sherlock has dubbed his ‘date shoes’ and preparing to leave the flat, Sherlock stares at him with his steepled fingers and an infuriatingly knowing look in his eyes.

 

“Right, I’m off,” he states, standing up and grabbing his coat from the rack.

 

“I would say that I’ll see you tomorrow,” Sherlock answers, “but we both know that you’ll be back in less than three hours.”

 

“You may be brilliant, but you’re not a fortune teller. All you know is her name, and you’re aware that I'm more than capable of having- actually, I'm not having this conversation with you, it’s none of your business. I'll see you _when I see you.”_

 

He doesn't give Sherlock a chance to answer before he leaves for his evening of good food, attractive company and, hopefully, satisfactory sex.

 

And he very deliberately ignores Sherlock’s presence (he seems not to have moved at all) when he returns to the flat two hours and forty-seven minutes later, choosing instead to go directly upstairs to his room, where he stays resolutely for the rest of the night.

 

Sherlock just has to be _right_ all the time.

 

He flops backwards onto his bed, feeling frustrated and cross and defeated and, if he’s honest, not in the least bit surprised that he’s ending the evening alone. Sherlock had probably observed it in the way he’d unpacked the shopping or something else that would sound equally ridiculous until it was explained to him as if he didn't have a single functioning brain cell of his own. John kicks off his shoes. He’s always astounded by the accuracy of Sherlock’s deductions, but that doesn't make it any less aggravating when he’s the one on the receiving end of them and Sherlock is dooming his romantic entanglements before they even begin.

 

Tammy had been lovely, as expected, and the food had been delicious, and John had dealt with the bill while trying not to seem either too obvious or too subtle about his hopes for the rest of the evening, but it had been clear that Tammy wasn't really interested in whatever it was that John had to offer. He’d hailed her a taxi, kissed her on the cheek, and she had thanked him for a nice time before sliding into the backseat and disappearing into the night, leaving John standing on the pavement by himself. Beyond a polite text or two, John was well aware that he was unlikely to hear from her again.

 

And John had been tempted to wait it out before heading home, past Sherlock’s three-hour deadline just to be a bit petty and tell him that he’d been wrong about something, but the chill in the early spring air was nippier than he had anticipated, biting through to his skin, and he decided he would rather sulk in the relative warmth of his bedroom than on a chilly park bench. Even if that meant he would have to deal with Sherlock’s ‘of course I was right, what did you expect?’ attitude.

 

Well, he’s at least determined not to give Sherlock that particular satisfaction. As long as he doesn't go back downstairs, he might maintain a vague feeling of control, and the likelihood of Sherlock coming up to his room is close to zero.

 

He sits up, peels himself out of his coat and throws it to the foot of his bed.

 

Arguably, the most frustrating part of this whole situation is that he still has a pressing sexual itch that needs scratching, and the thought of a lonely wank is especially depressing after having his hopes of a more two-sided experience dashed.

 

Still.

 

He eyes his laptop, sitting atop his chest of drawers where he left it last. It almost seems silly not to, since he’s put himself into isolation for the rest of the night anyway.

 

Sherlock will know. But then, Sherlock has probably long since identified and catalogued all of John’s masturbation habits, in much the same way as he’s recently taken to timing John’s showers and counting how many times John chews his food before he swallows it, so John finds that he can't bring himself to care too much.

 

He grabs his laptop, muting the volume anyway, and settles back on his bed, jeans already undone and shirt off for comfort.

 

The video he chooses today is, ‘Blonde babe anal creampie’.

 

And, as usual, he is indifferent to the presence of the woman as he works at his own cock with a well-practiced efficiency, and he comes with his gaze locked firmly on the pale, dark-haired man doing the fucking instead, biting his lip to suppress any loud sounds he might make.

 

He refuses to think too deeply about his own preferences as he wipes himself down with his shirt afterwards, ridding himself of his jeans completely and resigning himself to another night of restless sleep, and not at all looking forward to the inevitable ‘I told you so’ conversation he’ll have with Sherlock in the morning.

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, he needn't have worried, because Sherlock isn't in the flat at all when John ventures downstairs the following morning, leaving him to shower and have his tea and breakfast in peace. In fact, the conversation never happens at all, not even when Sherlock returns late in the afternoon, and it even seems like Sherlock might have forgotten about it entirely.

 

John is thankful for it. And yet, at the same time, he almost feels disappointed.

 

* * *

 

It’s not until after the third date he tries to go on after that - with an initially giggly midwife called Mel - crashes to a spectacularly terrible end involving thrown wine and slammed napkins that John starts to admit to himself that perhaps he’s not looking at this from the correct perspective.

 

He’s still not being completely honest, and deep in his gut, he knows it. But coming to the conclusion that his porn habit is no longer doing it for him is a start, and tonight he intends to start exploring beyond his usual boundaries.

 

It’s with shaky fingers, and only after ensuring that Sherlock is far too busy at the morgue to come and interrupt him, that he clicks on the ‘gay’ category for the first time in his life. And he is so overwhelmed by it, by what feels like the most momentous event ever, that he very nearly clicks straight back out of it again.

 

Because he knows he’s not interested in the tanned and muscular specimens that dominate his first glimpse into these possibilities, and he’s confident that general male-on-male content isn't what will fulfill him. He’s come to realise that he has a rather specific taste. But he can't deny that he’s on the right track, given the throb that pulses through his dick as soon as all those masculine thumbnails start loading onto his screen, and a hard bite to his bottom lip keeps him grounded, gives him a moment to reason with himself.

 

The porn he watches has no reflection on him as an individual. There is no reason why a heterosexual man can't enjoy watching homosexual porn from time to time. There must be plenty of straight women out there who get off on watching lesbians, after all, and this is really no different.

 

And this will also make it easier, in theory, to find videos featuring actors who look like-

 

Well, actors who fit his ‘tall, dark, slim and exceptionally handsome’ criteria.

 

That is a can of worms he is nowhere near ready to open yet.

 

He’s already nude under his dressing gown as he lies back on the bed, nervous and practically vibrating with excitement as he scrolls through a world of previously self-denied possibilities, his cock already hard and hot and resting heavily against his belly.

 

He plays a video simply titled, ‘rough anal bang’. Probably best not to completely overwhelm himself this first time.

 

It’s about fifteen minutes long, this video, and it turns out that rather than cutting straight to the penetrative sex, the first eight minutes or so are dedicated to foreplay. He watches as two men, both shirtless from the outset, snog and run their hands over each other’s bodies, knuckles skimming across bulging but clothed erections, fingers squeezing fleshier areas like arses and waists. There are strategic, if amateur, close-ups of tongues and nipples, fingertips skimming just below waistbands as the two actors put on a very deliberate show for their audience.

 

John swallows hard, reaching a hand down without thinking to start slowly stroking himself. He’d intended to wait at least a few minutes first, just to check that he isn't making a humiliating error in his own judgement, but it already doesn't seem necessary. His fingers squeeze of their own accord, his own touch feels somehow more electric and alive than normal, sparks of arousal shooting from his nerve endings straight to his groin, and he can't help but let out a small gasp.

 

It’s ok, he reminds himself as he almost panics. Sherlock isn't here.

 

By the time that the two men on the screen (both of whom have very similar dark, curled hair and slender physiques) have discarded the rest of their clothes and are grinding against one another in a more horizontal way, John is hooked, his hand moving at a steady pace and his breath becoming noticeably heavier. This is far closer to what he needs. Whether or not it will fill that aching void he’s been feeling recently, it’s too soon to tell, but he’s certainly more physically worked up than he’s been in a long time, and he can already tell that the orgasm he’s going to get out of this will be dizzyingly intense.

 

A quiet whimper escapes him as the actors begin working up to the main event, one fingering the other, the recipient moaning exaggeratedly and rocking back wantonly onto his partners digits. It conjures an image in John’s mind, clearer than any of the brief flashes that he’s experienced at times like this before, that nearly stops him in his tracks with its clarity. Himself in an almost identical scenario, lubed fingers moving determinedly to stimulate and stretch the arsehole in front of him, to prepare it for his dick. And the owner of that fantastic arse, both rounded and muscular, throwing his own head back, eyes closed with bliss and keening from the pleasure of it, desperate for more of anything John can give. Dark brown curls wild and stuck to his forehead from sweat, full and kiss-swollen lips parted to gasp for breath.

 

He chokes on his next groan. He’s not deep enough in denial to pretend he didn't know that he fantasised about one particular person. It’s just always happened so quickly before, the images just flashes lasting for split-seconds, that it’s been easy to pretend that it could have been anybody. But the image of the man, caught in the throes of sexual pleasure given entirely by John, searingly detailed and apparently now burned onto his brain, is irrefutable.

 

He’s really, _really_ glad that Sherlock is out, and he spares a quick mourning thought for his own dignity, which will inevitably die a horrendous death the next time Sherlock looks at him and deduces exactly what's on his mind.

 

But even the shock of being forced to confront his own desires so unexpectedly isn't enough to stop his hand moving on his cock, and his eyes roll back in his head as the ‘top’ slides his dick smoothly inside the waiting, fluttering hole before him.

 

He’s so close already.

 

And it’s as if the floodgates have been opened; now he can't _stop_ himself picturing Sherlock naked and wanting beneath him, arse swallowing his cock with every thrust, matching the rough and brutal pace promised by the videos simple title. He can almost hear Sherlock’s baritone echoing around him, he would be so deliciously vocal, all shouts and screams and moans and, hopefully, generous helpings of John’s name. He can imagine how his skin would look, mottled pink from sex and exertion, bruising like a peach under his fingers. John would give him everything, and Sherlock would _crave_ it, and they would come together, Sherlock’s semen streaking across the sheets and John’s being drained from him as those strong internal walls clenched uncontrollably around him.

 

As expected, his real-life orgasm is monumental. His whole body spasms and he’s sure he nearly passes out.

 

The two actors on screen still have a few minutes of video to go, but John suddenly finds it difficult to care.

 

* * *

 

He spends the next few weeks absolutely engrossed. He watches every video he can find featuring one or other of those two actors, and before long it occurs to him that he can't remember the last time he watched any porn featuring women at all.

 

He still takes second looks at attractive women in real life, and he absolutely wouldn't be averse to dating any of them if they showed an interest, but he’s been surprised to find that consumption of homosexual porn and a now-conscious appreciation of his flatmate’s sexual allure is enough to keep him from going completely crazy with unexplainable tension. Well, almost enough.

 

And then one day, in the middle of a shift at the surgery, an idea starts to burrow into his brain. Maybe he can get another step closer.

 

It’s an absolutely petrifying thought and it sort of makes him want to run for the hills or have himself sectioned for a few minutes, but the more he thinks about it, the more he wonders whether the potential benefits might outweigh the terror of unexplored territory. And he realises, as he tidies his desk at the end of the shift, that he’ll never know unless he tries. And he was a soldier, for god’s sake. If he could have the courage to go to war, then this should be a piece of cake.

 

So he leaves the surgery with a fluttery feeling in his stomach and a newfound determination to go on a date with a man.

 

He finds a willing man while he’s queueing for a coffee in Costa a few mornings later, a tall brunette (by this point, he knows there's not much point in entertaining anything otherwise) named Danny. At first, it’s a struggle trying to assess male interest in himself, but Danny is open and talkative and seems to find John's inexperience with men quite charming. Happy to let Danny take the lead with this, they arrange to meet for a quiet meal somewhere nice and low-key, no expectations, just getting to know each other.

 

John divulges none of the details to Sherlock. Of course, Sherlock is suspicious, since John is not usually so secretive about his dates, and John spares a moment to curse himself for failing to think this through properly. But he makes sure he’s out of the door before Sherlock can verbally deduce anything or otherwise slaughter him with the truth of his situation.

 

And the date goes well. It’s surprisingly carefree and easy, and John finds that it doesn't take long before he lowers his guard and loses enough of his reservations to even flirt a bit, and Danny reciprocates with just the right amount of enthusiasm. Their mains arrive, and John even starts to think that maybe this really is what he needs.

 

Then his phone buzzes in his pocket. He throws an apologetic look to Danny before fishing it out and opening the text.

 

_Kitchen chemical burns on human flesh. Where do you keep the bleach? SH_

 

John groans. This is not what he needs right now.

 

_Do not touch the bleach. Or anything else hazardous. Please, for the sake of my sanity._

 

Danny chuckles at his expression. “Problem?” he asks.

 

John shakes his head, a smile borne of both fondness and exasperation on his face. “My insane flatmate has no sense of self-preservation.”

 

His phone buzzes again. _Does living skin have the same response to corrosion as dead skin, in your professional opinion? SH_

 

He types back, his smile giving way to a grimace. _Whatever you're doing, stop it. You’ll end up with missing fingers or something._

 

“And you’re always picking up the pieces, I guess?”

 

John shakes his head. “You have no idea.” He’s lost count of the number of times he’s needed to stitch, disinfect, bandage, or otherwise fix Sherlock up after an experiment or a case gone awry. The man is a constant accident waiting to happen.

 

“Well, it’s easy to put your trust in a doctor.” Danny quirks an eyebrow, just a little, but enough for John to catch. “Especially a good-looking one.”

 

John glances up at him, catches his eyes, which are dancing with playfulness. They’re a deep, rich brown. Completely the wrong colour.

 

He lets himself smile back. “When you’re as good with your hands as I am, it seems a shame to keep them to myself all the time.”

 

There’s a moment, charged with electricity between them, and if it weren't for the next message that buzzes through to his phone at that same second, he knows the rest of the evening might have gone very differently.

 

Except his smile vanishes when he reads the message.

 

_Mixed chemicals. Rapid skin corrosion. Come at once. SH_

 

“Oh lord,” he groans, but there was never going to be any alternative, and he’s already reaching for his coat and his wallet. “Look, Danny, I am so sorry, but-”

 

“If you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go,” Danny interrupts him, and John is relieved that there's no bitterness in his voice. He really had been enjoying himself. “Duty calls, right? Just make sure you give me another call, too.” He throws a wink, and John chuckles as he drops enough money to cover his half of the bill.

 

“I'll look forward to a whole dinner next time.”

 

“You and me both, Dr John.”

 

John smiles one last time, grateful for his easiness and understanding, before turning on his heel and leaving the restaurant, all his thoughts turning to Sherlock.

 

He’s managed to worry himself into a frenzy by the time he runs up the stairs to the flat, wondering whether Sherlock will be foaming at the mouth or missing any major limbs when he finds him. “Sherlock!” he calls, barrelling in and coming to a rapid halt when he sees the man sitting in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin and apparently no worse for wear than he had been when John left. He fixes John immediately with a stern stare, and after John has satisfied himself that Sherlock still has all his body parts attached and in working order, his worry is replaced with displeasure.

 

“Sherlock, correct me if I'm wrong, but none of your skin has corroded, has it?”

 

Sherlock stands and crosses the room in a few long strides. He gets straight into John’s personal space, taking a few seconds to scrutinise his face and appearance, before leaning in towards his neck and taking a deep inhale.

 

This, John was not prepared for, and he staggers backwards a few paces in surprise. Sherlock stays where he is, that stern look still screwing up his features. “Correct me if I'm wrong, _John_ , but you’ve been on a date with a man.”

 

John splutters a little. He’s never been great at lying when confronted with the truth. So, instead, he attempts to sidestep. “I asked first. Why are you lying about chemical burns?”

 

Sherlock looks at him like he’s an idiot. “Because I needed you to come home.”

 

“What for?”

 

“To explain yourself!”

 

And now John can feel his temper getting the better of him, feeling akin to a cornered animal about to be ripped apart. Anger as a defence strategy. “There's nothing to explain! Believe it or not, Sherlock, but there are aspects of my life that are none of your business.”

 

Sherlock folds his arms and narrows his eyes. “I went through your browser history, you know.”

 

John’s first and strongest instinct is to throw himself out of the window. But he makes a valiant effort to keep his expression under control and he meets Sherlock’s eye contact. “I delete my browser history.”

 

There’s a pause, and Sherlock rolls his eyes. “John, _please._ ”

 

And John knows. He knows that Sherlock knows. His shoulders sink in defeat, anger fizzling out of him, giving way to a reluctant acceptance of whatever is about to come. And he wonders what ever made him think in the first place that he might be able to keep something like this from Sherlock at all, never mind indefinitely or forever. It was just never going to happen, not in a million years.

 

There's a strained silence in the air between them until John huffs out a slightly hysterical laugh. “Alright. So, as usual, you know everything you need to know.”

 

“No!” Frustration now starts to leak into Sherlock’s tone. “I can see it, but it doesn't _fit_. I need to know why!”

 

“Why _what_ , Sherlock?” John's voice is getting a little higher, and he can feel his hands shaking.

 

“Why, when you’ve always declared how ‘not gay’ you are, you’ve suddenly developed an interest in the most homosexual varieties of pornography.”

 

“You know what?” John throws his hands up. “Maybe I came to a few realisations about myself, alright? Maybe it’s not actually a crime, or even something I need to justify, to grow or change as a person.”

 

“Why didn't you tell me?”

 

John snorts. “You’re hardly Mr Empathy. When was the last time you showed more than a passing genuine interest in my personal life?”

 

Sherlock’s expression is carefully controlled, but John knows him well enough to see the flash of hurt in his eyes at that response. “I watched a lot of those clips, John. Those actors, they looked… they looked…” It’s rare that Sherlock struggles to find the right words, but here he does, averting his gaze to the floor and compensating by gesturing wildly with his arms. Then his voice drops a little. “And then I have to sit here while you go on dates with men! I don't understand, and I need you to explain _why_!”

 

“I…” John is at a loss. Sherlock seems to be getting a little distressed, unable to accurately express his thoughts and feelings in this context, and John doesn't want to get his hopes up. And yet…

 

He takes a breath. He’s become an expert in speaking Sherlock over the years of their friendship. He’s more capable than anyone of picking out the key pieces of information and deciphering them into something that anyone could understand. He’ll be both devastated and humiliated if he’s misinterpreting now, but damn it all, _the pieces are there_ , and if it were anyone other than Sherlock, he wouldn't hesitate.

 

In for a penny and all that.

 

“Sherlock…” he starts carefully, watching his friends face. “Tell me what you want.”

 

Sherlock looks back at him, searches him, and John waits until he finds whatever it is that he’s looking for. The tension in the air is so thick, he can hardly breathe.

 

Then Sherlock meets his gaze square on, and his voice is level as he says, “I want it to be me, John.”

 

The spark that seems to erupt between them is like nothing John has ever experienced in his life. He almost chokes, and he stumbles forward, reaching for Sherlock at the same time as Sherlock closes his own half of the distance. He takes Sherlock’s face in his hands, already feeling the heat radiating from his body. It sends a shudder down his spine; he can never be close enough. “You already know it’s you. How could it be anyone else?”

 

“You’ve just been on a date with another man.”

 

John wants to smack the insecurity and stupidity out of him. “I thought you wouldn't be… amenable.”

 

It’s this statement that finally seems to get through to Sherlock, enabling all of the puzzle pieces he’s gathered to fit into place. His hesitancy vanishes; he wraps both hands behind John’s neck and tilts his head down to kiss him.

 

Just as he realises that this is honestly about to happen, John sucks in a sharp breath. But the moment that Sherlock’s lips, those lips he’s been dreaming about, land atop his own, he knows he’s beyond saving from this. His eyes close as he savours the feeling, sliding his fingers back from Sherlock’s face into his hair. He hasn't got enough spare attention to be embarrassed when a muffled whimper rises in his throat, too busy keeping his mouth on Sherlock’s, feeling the pressure pressing back against him, tasting him in a way he’s only ever been able to fantasise about before.

 

Then Sherlock moans into his mouth, low and deep, and the whole experience is impossibly even better. John relishes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, slipping his tongue past Sherlock’s parted lips, and Sherlock responds in kind, his grip on John tightening and his body pressing closer.

 

They’re panting when they eventually separate, this intimacy at the same time too much and not nearly enough. Sherlock’s thumbs drag along John's neck as he manages to ground out a simple, “ _Please_ , John…”

 

And this time, John knows.

 

There's no hesitation from either of them now. They trip over each other’s feet as they stumble to Sherlock’s bedroom, unwilling to stop touching or kissing for any longer than absolutely necessary. By the time they fall into Sherlock’s bed, their clothes have been strewn all over the flat, and they reattach at the mouth as they each feel the other for the first time with no barriers in between.

 

John has died and gone to heaven. It’s the only explanation. Even in all his dreams, Sherlock couldn't have been as perfect as he is here in the flesh. He kisses every inch of skin he can reach, touching and grabbing and squeezing with his hands, his body draped on top of Sherlock’s for maximum contact. He grinds their hips together, greedy for the feeling of Sherlock’s arousal pressed against him, and thankfully Sherlock seems no less keen, bucking up against him like a wild animal, his entire body arching and responding to each of John’s kisses and touches.

 

Already it’s the most incredible experience, and John knows nothing will ever compare. He’s consumed by a desperate need to claim this man, to never let him out of his sight, to hold tightly onto this experience that he had simply assumed would never become a reality until now.

 

And Sherlock - beautiful, brilliant Sherlock - he knows too, because he presses a small bottle to John's chest until he takes it. He must have grabbed it while John was occupied with cataloguing his body.

 

John pulls back just a little, enough to look into Sherlock's eyes, and finds that Sherlock is looking back at him confidently and unflinchingly. “I meant it, John,” he says, his voice gravelly and croaky but steady. “I want it to be me.”

 

John has to kiss him again. Has to. And he vows to use every ounce of his experience to ruin Sherlock for anyone else ever.

 

He kisses the insides of Sherlock’s thighs as he circles lubed fingers around his rim, delighting in the full-body shudders that result from the combined onslaught of sensation on those sensitive areas. Sherlock throws his head back as the first finger goes in, exposing the divine column of his throat, his mouth open and spilling hushed declarations of John’s name. His fingers clench in his own hair as John works him open, the precision of a doctor and the care of a lover making an almost lethally addictive combination. And John can't take his eyes off him, loves watching him respond so unashamedly, and for a moment he regrets never having the courage or the conviction to pursue this before.

 

But then, with three fingers scissoring and stretching, he finds that sweet spot inside Sherlock, and Sherlock howls, his back arching cleanly off the bed as his eyes snap open, unseeing and unfocused, and the sight is so erotic that John doesn't have the inclination for regrets anymore. He can feel his cock, neglected and throbbing, heavy where it juts proudly away from his body, tiny beads of fluid leaking from the tip. He aches to be inside Sherlock, needs it with every fibre of his being. Just the thought of it drags a guttural moan from his throat as he slowly withdraws his fingers.

 

They’re in wordless agreement, fluidly synchronised; John lubing himself up while Sherlock repositions himself, shoving a pillow under his hips and drawing his thighs up to his chest. Sherlock’s breath hitches as John’s cock presses against his opening, and John almost asks him if he’s sure he wants this, almost offers him that out. But before he says a word, he realises that he doesn't need to. And Sherlock lifts a hand to grip John's shoulder, a grounding point of contact for them both, and John starts pushing into him.

 

It’s nothing like in the porn, where male A smoothly impales male B without even a hint of resistance. Despite the preparation, and although John is normally proud to say that he’s thicker than average, Sherlock’s body fights him and makes that initial penetration slow and uncomfortable for them both. John doesn't force his way past the tight muscles, instead pressing forward in tiny increments whenever he feels a bit of give, and he presses open kisses to Sherlock’s face in an attempt to soothe the tension there. Sherlock’s grip on his shoulder is white-knuckled, his nails digging into the skin painfully, and he’s making a conscious effort to level his breathing.

 

It’s with no small amount of relief when John is finally fully seated, and they pause in this new position, taking a few moments to relax into it and get slightly more comfortable. John keeps kissing Sherlock, revelling in the sensation of his arse slowly releasing its iron-like grip on his cock, gradually giving way to a delicious tightness. It’s simply mind-blowing. And he’ll wait as long as it takes for Sherlock to be ready.

 

It takes a minute or two, but Sherlock finally starts to squirm, experimenting with the undoubtedly full sensation, much of the tension easing from his body. John experiments too; tiny, shallow thrusts at first, getting them both used to the feeling of movement. He builds his pace without hurry; he needs to savour Sherlock, and he can't get enough of the dazed, awed expression on his face.

 

But he can't hold back when Sherlock wraps his ankles around his lower back, digging his heels into his arse cheeks. He shifts position, just enough to make sure he’ll stimulate Sherlock’s prostate most of the time, and thrusts hard. They both cry out together, and it’s _phenomenal_ , the start of a brutal pace that has Sherlock blindly grabbing for anything he can reach as a litany of curses spill from his mouth, a rhythm that has the headboard slamming back against the wall in a way that's reminiscent of cheesy, erotic clichés. John can't stop the words tumbling out of his mouth either, a stream of worship for Sherlock as he feels the heat of his orgasm building.

 

Somehow, John finds the presence of mind to reach between them, taking Sherlock’s cock in his hand. He barely has time to stammer out, “Come on, come for me,” before Sherlock is wailing loud enough to wake the dead, powerful pulses of come erupting between their bodies as he gropes for any part of John he can reach, spasming from head to toe for what feels like forever. As the intensity of it subsides, he slumps back onto the bed, every part of him limp and loose and sated as John fucks him through it, and if John had been in any doubt about loving him before, he knows it in this moment with absolute certainty.

 

His own climax isn't far behind, his mind spinning as he finally empties himself into Sherlock. He has no control over the words he’s saying. It’s an orgasm like no other, demanding the attention of his whole body and sapping him of any last scrap of energy he holds. The only thing he can even be aware of is Sherlock.

 

When the waves of pleasure eventually start giving way to oversensitivity, he collapses on top of Sherlock bonelessly. He has to kiss him again, he can't help it, and it’s slow and messy and uncoordinated and perfect, Sherlock's arms wrapping around his back to hold him in place.

 

How is it possible that he’s needed something so much without even realising?

 

There's a giddy grin spread across his face when he finally rolls off Sherlock. And if that grin remains firmly in place for the next several days, well, that's no one's business but his own.


End file.
